


Réveillon

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Christmas, Established Relationship, Feelings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-11 12:24:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8979616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: He was not so easily satisfied, these days.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to Cinaed for looking this over.

The meal had been sumptuous. Gillenormand's servants had brought in one dish after another, foie gras and oysters and goose; the old man himself had ordered the champagne to flow. The young couple were the natural centre of events, so radiant and happy that even Javert had to admit they were charming.  


As for himself, he had spent the night seated next to Mlle Gillenormand, whose conversation demanded little of him but the occasional "yes" or "how interesting". Valjean had been seated across the table from him, next to his daughter, out of Javert's reach, though not out of eyesight. He had looked as radiant as Cosette herself; whenever she touched his hand, or leaned towards him to whisper something in his ear, his face would break into one of those rare smiles Javert treasured.  


As always, seeing the two of them together stirred a peculiar mix of feelings within him: guilt and jealousy and a reluctant acceptance of the fact that he could never begrudge Jean Valjean any kind of happiness. It would only get worse, he knew. Cosette was expecting next year – Valjean had told him as much earlier, wistfulness and joy warring in his voice. The child would become the new centre of the Gillenormand household, and perhaps the new centre of Valjean's life as well, the way Cosette had been for so many years. 

Thinking along those lines was petty and foolish, of course. A child could not replace him, Javert, not anymore than he had been able to replace Cosette in Valjean's affections. It was all different, but he was under no illusions as to his own greed. This last year and a half, he had learned to be as honest with himself as he had always been with his superiors. He was well aware of the possessive flame that burned within him, the thirst that could never be quenched. He knew that he would never have enough of Jean Valjean; the fact that Valjean wanted him in turn was the great miracle of his life, and one that he would never comprehend. 

For such a miracle, this was no hardship to endure: to spend Christmas Eve in this house, the likes of which he would never have had cause to enter in his previous life, to entertain conversation and eat rich food in the company of people of a social standing far above his own. Even so, he was secretly relieved when they withdrew from the dining room to the salon, where Cosette played the piano and Gillenormand insisted on a game of cards, and even more so when it was finally late enough to retire.

They would spend the night there – Cosette had insisted on it – and in the morning, they would all attend Mass together. Javert could not help thinking back to last year, his first Christmas with Valjean. They had spent it in the apartment at the Rue de l'Homme-Armé, and although the meal had been modest compared to tonight's feast, he had been able to fall asleep in Valjean's arms, entwined in the narrow bed, and to wake with him in the morning, and walk arm-in-arm with him to Church.

Here, in Gillenormand's grand home, they would of course be put in separate bedrooms. There was no way around it. Javert knew he should consider himself content to be invited at all; certainly it would have been worse to spend the night in his own cold rooms, instead of under the same roof as Valjean. But still. He was not so easily satisfied, these days.

At least their rooms were on the same floor. He withdrew a few minutes after Valjean, catching up with him in the hallway. Valjean turned to meet him; he reached out for Javert, and they briefly clasped hands.

"I trust we'll both sleep well tonight. That was quite a meal."

"Indeed," Javert said. Then, with a glance towards the stairs, he added, "Though I'm not sure I'm entirely full yet."

Valjean's cheeks coloured slightly, but he did not let go of Javert's hand. For another moment they stood there, looking at each other. 

"I shall see you in the morning," Valjean said softly, "if not before."

It was as good as an invitation. 

Javert went to his room – not much larger than the one he had rented for years, albeit far more luxurious – and undressed, used the chamber-pot, washed, put on his nightshirt and a dressing-gown over it. Then he waited. The walls were not thin, which he considered a blessing given his own furtive plans, but which also meant that he could not easily tell if there was anyone in the hallway or coming up the stairs. At last, he opened the door, peeked out, and, deeming the course clear, hastily stole down the hallway. 

Valjean opened the second after he'd knocked, which meant he had been waiting. Like Javert, he was dressed in a nightshirt and a dressing-gown, although this state of affairs would change soon enough if Javert had his way. "You came," he whispered, quickly shutting the door behind them. "I wasn't sure you would."

Javert's throat constricted as he realised something that had never really occurred to him before: that to Valjean, this love between them was a wondrous and fragile a thing as it was to Javert himself. That Valjean, who by now must be aware of the extent of Javert's devotion, still would not take it for granted; that he had doubted, even for a second, that Javert would want to spend the night with him. 

"Ten wild horses could not have kept me away," he said, somewhat thickly, reaching out to pull Valjean to him. "I'm relieved to have remembered your room correctly, though. Imagine if I were to knock on Mlle Gillenormand's door instead."

Valjean let out a rare huff of laughter. His arms went around Javert's waist, his mouth opened under Javert's, and for the next minutes they did not speak. 

The room was pleasantly warm, embers still glowing in the fireplace. Javert tore himself away for long enough to glance around the fine cream-coloured walls, the dark mahogany furniture. Valjean could have lived here, he knew. Marius and Cosette had always wanted him to, and after the secret of Valjean's past had been revealed, they wanted it even more. It would have been a pleasant life in this fine house. Not even Valjean would have been able to completely refuse its luxuries. And yet he had chosen to remain in the Rue Plumet, and Javert would stay there more often than not, and by rights he should have tried to convince Valjean to move here, but – 

"You look pensive," Valjean muttered, kissing him again, and all of Javert's misgivings evaporated in the hot rush of desire through his body.

No, he could never give up this, as long as Valjean was willing to give it to him. If he was selfish, so be it. 

They made their way towards the bed, which was more than large enough for the two of them, trading kisses along the way and fumbling with each other's dressing-gowns. Javert tore off his nightshirt and sprawled upon the bed, shaking his head as Valjean went to extinguish the lamps. "Leave them." 

Valjean indulged him, leaving the lamps to cast the room in soft light as he pulled off his own nightshirt, revealing his body to Javert's hungry gaze. He made as if to hang the garment neatly over a chair; then, catching Javert's eyes, let it drop to the floor and swiftly crossed the remaining distance to the bed. 

Javert opened his arms and Valjean sank into his embrace. They tangled on the bed, both of them as hard as youths, their kisses hot and hungry. Despite the sturdy walls, Javert knew they must be careful; the prudent choice would be to satisfy each other quickly and quietly, and then go to sleep and hope there would still be time for him to quietly slip back to his own room in the morning. And yet, what he wanted most tonight was that one thing that was most likely to make him cry out, calling Valjean's name, and it was certainly reckless of him, and greedy – but how could he be anything but greedy for Valjean? 

He twisted in Valjean's grasp, enough to roll over onto his stomach. "There's oil over there," he said, nodding to one of the lamps that had been left burning. "Use it." 

Valjean was silent for a moment. "Is that such a good idea?" he asked at last, but Javert could hear the rawness in his voice, the desire mirroring his own. "What if we are too loud –" 

"It's a sturdy bed," Javert said. "You will simply do your best not to slam it into the wall. And I..." He craned his neck enough to look into Valjean's eyes. "I will do my best not to scream."

After another moment's hesitation, Valjean bent to kiss him, then rose to bring over the lamp. Javert watched him cross the floor, taking in the lines of that powerful body, of his cock jutting out hard, and a shudder of pure lust went through him. 

He bent his legs to raise his hips, spreading his thighs a little. Valjean returned, the mattress dipping as he climbed in behind Javert. His fingers were slick, a little unsteady as they circled Javert's hole, as if he was trying to control his own impatience. The thought made Javert want to growl. 

"Hurry," he muttered against the pillow, gripping the blanket with both hands. Truly he must be shameless to demand such a thing in the house of Valjean's own son-in-law, under the same roof as a baron. Well, if this was shamelessness, so be it. These days there were other things in his life for which he felt shame, and guilt, and remorse. He would not deny himself this, not as long as it brought Jean Valjean pleasure as well. And why should anyone care but the Almighty Himself? What he shared with Valjean, this secret intimacy, was theirs and theirs alone. No one else would know. 

Valjean withdrew his fingers, shifting so that his prick was sliding along Javert's cleft, hard and eager. "Are you comfortable?" he whispered, somewhat breathlessly.

"Yes. Hurry, now." He craned his neck again, enough to press a kiss to the corner of Valjean's mouth. His own cock was throbbing steadily against the mattress, and Javert moved a little, spreading his legs further in blatant invitation. 

He groaned in ecstasy, his hands fisting in the blanket as Valjean slid inside him, slowly, unstoppably, all the way until they were skin to skin, Valjean flush against his back and Valjean's mouth at his neck. 

For a moment they lay like that, unmoving, breathing harshly. Valjean's hand covered his own; Javert released the blanket to thread their fingers together. 

Valjean kissed his ear, and Javert loved him so much it hurt. 

"Go on," he said, his breathless voice turning the words from an order into a plea. 

Another kiss, this time to his temple. He groaned again, twisting his neck in search of Valjean's mouth, bucking his hips. At last Valjean took pity on him, pulling back a little, enough for Javert to feel the slow drag of his prick inside - and then he thrust, hard, pinning Javert against the mattress, and Javert arched his back and buried his face in the pillow so as not to cry out for more. 

This was his new life in its purest form, these moments alone with Valjean, when nothing mattered but the two of them, the heat of their bodies close together, moving in rhythm. He had lived for five decades without this; he doubted he had lived at all. Nothing else mattered but Valjean inside him, large and hard and filling him again and again; Javert pushed back, eagerly, wanting nothing more than this fullness, this burn, everything that Valjean would give him. 

"Please," he gasped at last, feeling himself draw nearer. Valjean's free hand stole under him, found Javert's cock where it was trapped against the bed, and curled around it; Javert felt the crest building within him – he twisted again, desperately, and caught Valjean's mouth to smother his own cry as his climax took him, rendering him thrashing in Valjean's grasp, spilling his release all over Valjean's hand. A second later, Valjean followed, with a broken gasp against Javert's mouth and a great shudder that reverberated through them both, his seed a hot rush inside Javert's body. 

They lay for a while in the same position, their breaths calming. At length, Valjean moved, slipping out of Javert and rising to find a washcloth. Javert followed his movements, as he had done earlier. The sharp edge of desire was gone, replaced by a lazy satiation, but he felt no less voracious. 

Valjean returned, having washed Javert's seed off his hands. He ran the washcloth over Javert's thighs, pausing to examine the mattress for suspicious stains. "I think we were lucky," he muttered. "The servants might not notice anything amiss."

"I'm sure it takes more to faze them – they work for your son-in-law's grandfather, after all." That earned him another snort of amusement. "Come back to bed." 

"Just a moment." 

Valjean went to the washstand to dispose with the washcloth. Next to the window, he paused. There was a tiny crack between the curtains, barely enough to peer out. Standing naked in the half-light of the lamps, he looked like a statue – pensive and immovable. 

Then he turned to Javert, smiling. "It has snowed again," he said. "The city looks so peaceful. Come, have a look." 

Javert would have preferred not to; still, he got up and crossed the floor to where Valjean was standing. The room was still warm, and in a minute he would convince Valjean to come back to bed. It was no sacrifice to stand with him for a moment, looking out between the curtains to where Paris lay silent and still under the covers of snow, the white stark against the blackness of the sky. 

"What are you thinking of?" he said at last. 

Valjean placed a hand on his waist. "I'm thinking that this is the night that our Saviour was born," he said quietly. "And this is also the night when I found my salvation, many years ago, in the forest near Montfermeil. And..." He touched his lips to Javert's shoulder. "This is the second time I spend this holiday with you. I treasure each day we are given." 

For a moment, Javert could not speak. The realisation from earlier filled him again. To be treasured by Jean Valjean was daunting – he was not worthy of it, and he never would be. But then again, what man had ever been worthy of his own salvation?

Turning, Javert met Valjean's gaze, dark and familiar and well-loved. He raised his hand to Valjean's face, stroking back a lock of hair that was still damp with sweat from their exertions. 

"You have given me so much," he muttered, flattening his palm along Valjean's cheek. "My life. Yourself. This... And what have I given you in return?" 

"More than you know," Valjean said, drawing him close.


End file.
